Gauntlet
by Arseni
Summary: A late-night email leads Sam Flynn back to the Grid. A secret in his father's home reveal Sam must save the grid again. But this threat is more connected to his own world than Sam realizes.
1. Ort

**200 C.A.C. (Cycles After Clu)**

The data-street was deserted, empty as the sky above it. The street glistened in the night with the info-rainwater from the previous night. All was quiet and still.

From a shadowed alley came a program by the name of Ort. He shuffled along wearing a long coat, cool blue light trimming the hood and going down both sleeves. He was a vag of the Grid, a program without a disc. If he was discovered by a security detatchment then deresolution was almost certain. And so, he stuck to the alleys, hiding until it was quiet, until it was still. Only if the coast was absolutely clear would you ever see him. Instinct went far for a program in his position.

But his instinct was not what it should have been on this night. His paranoia and trepidation grew with awkward step of his shuffling gait. Every moment drew his frightened eyes over his shoulder, searching for the threat he could feel but not see. The feeling was becoming too much for him to bear. De-rezzing oneself was genearlly frowned upon, but it was sounding better and better with every step.

A swarm of searchlights descended around Ort. They had found him! Panic Setting in, he sprinted down the alley towards escape. Before he could exit, however, his pursuers pelted the space with gunfire, blocking him off. He quickly turned and retreated from where he came. It was then that he heard the sound.

Engines revving in a loud mechanical whine. Even before he could say it, the light-cycle appeared, it's rider garbed in the black of the Guard with red light trim. The rider reached back and pulled forth his disc as he rode towards Ort, its edge becoming a razor-edge of light. Ort knew this just had to be the end.

Before the cyclist's blow could come, two more Guard landed on either side of Ort, he assumed from light-jets. As they pulled him to his feet, he realized that perhaps he wasn't about to die after all. He struggled to nurture this hope as the cyclist approached him.

The visored gaze of this program couldn't be seen, but Ort knew it was there, making soft, sharp beeps as it scanned and classified him.

"This program has no disc," the cyclist said, his voice a gruff cyber-growl.

"We must rectify," said one of the light-jet pilots. "Parameters."

"No," replied the cyclist, now obvious to Ort that this was their leader. "Rem handles that now. We must take him to Rem, or, if there is resistance, de-rez." It was as he said the last that he turned his gaze on Ort. His unseen eyes gave the program another once-over, seeking how this program with so much potential had fallen. "Come with us," said the leader.

Ort broke free of his captors and ran. The alley was strewn with obstacles, but escape was certain. He didn't care who saw him; anything to get away from these programs. He had just cleared the alley and turned to his right when a brief, searing pain gripped him in his neck. A scream erupted as he fell to his knees. He managed to catch a glimpse of a disc leaving his neck, and his body transforming into miniscule pieces of data as approached the ground. By the time he finally hit the ground, the transformation was complete and Ort was now dead.

The disc soon returned to the cyclist, who then sheathed it. "Mount up," he ordered the others. "We must report to Rem."


	2. Email

**4.2 years after Clu**

Encom tower rose above the city-scape, dwarfing the surrounding buildings. The encircling tail of the letter M, unlit for now, shot down the buildings face towards the pavement, every inch of its surface glittering faintly in the sunlight. Camera lens eyes stood vigil over the impressive edifice, watching every move of the pedestrians below. And close to the building, the personnel parking lot, a final car now nestling among the sea of metal and glass.

Edward Dillenger, Jr., head of his company's tech team, son of former Encom CEO Ed Dillenger, had just arrived. He was a thin man, moderately muscled and slightly broad in the shoulders. His cropped and curly hair descend only at the temples, barely touching the points of his eyeglasses' frames. The slim goatee he wore only served to enhance his frustrated expression. A light growl crept from his body as he curled his fingers around his briefcase handle and then entered the building.

Now in his office, Dillenger sat at his desk and accessed his work station. No emails, business or personal, no memorandums, nothing. It seemed that ever since Sam Flynn had assumed control of the company four years ago, Dillenger had been consistently punished for his loyalties and his parentage. Since Flynn had stepped it, Dillenger had worked long and grueling hours to follow the neo-messiah's initiatives, eventually causing his betrothed of 6 years to leave him for Flynn. It had been months since he had received any email from friends, years since his last major project. Yes, he could feel the corporate noose tightening further.

But he would soon get Flynn back. That much, he knew, was certain. Soon, now.

An all-too-familiar electronic screech filled Dillenger's ears. He collapsed upon his desk, groaning loudly. Then, just as it had come, it was gone. Dillenger sat up, a gleam of determination in his eye.

He knew exactly what to do.

**10:15 PM**

Sam Flynn stood in the doorway. Beyond, in bed, lay his daughter, Gem. He thought he would never see anything with such beauty as to surpass the Grid, but in marrying Quorra, he found such beauty in his child. Watching over her, he could only smile. One day, perhaps, he could take her to see the Grid, himself. Keep the promise that Clu had forced his father to go back on.

Thinking of his father made Sam's smile falter slightly. Here it was, four years later and it still hurt.

"Knocking on the sky, Sam?" Quorra's arms snaked around his waist, pulling him toward him.

"Just thinking about dad," he said. "I miss him."

"I miss him, too, Sam," she replied. Looking at Gem, "She would have loved him."

Sam kissed his Grid-wife lovingly. "I have to work, Quorra. I'll see you in the morning."

Quorra kissed him again and lightly squeezed his buttocks before stepping away. She said nothing as she walked away, turning about only to wink before disappearing around the corner. Sam couldn't help but smile again.

Now in his home office, Sam labored over his workspace. Budget reports, projections, project pitches, job applicant's resumes, former personnel's resignations- He was in for a long night. He looked at the desk clock; it was now 11:00. He groaned and rubbed his temples. Why did he give up the life he had for ENCOM? Just for a while, he wanted to have some real fun. He briefly imagined coasting along the Grid on a light cycle or soaring through it's skies on a light-jet. This was no way for a CEO to behave. Then again...

He decided to knock for the evening.

Sam quickly straightened his space, re-filing the papers and tidying up. He was just about to shut down his computer when a message flashed: _New email._

"Weird," he said to himself. No one, not even Alan should have been emailing him this late at night. "What the hell's going on?"

Sam Flynn opened the email and his jaw dropped. In the address line read, **Grid-01.** Once he had made sure that this wasn't hallucination, he read the following:

_Greetings, Sam Flynn_

_Many of your "years" ago, your father came to the gaming grid and, with the assistance of another program, saved it from the tyranny of Abraxis and the MCP._

_"Years" later, you came to the Grid. Together, you and your father were able to defeat his creation, Clu, as well as keep your father's disc out of is possession._

_Now, 200 cycles later, a new, dangerous program by the name of Rem threatens the Grid. Only you can save the Grid from his tyrannical influence._

_If you choose to help, simply come to the Grid once again. Go to your father's home. You will find your answers there._

Sam couldn't believe what he was reading. Every day for the last four years had he wanted to see the Grid again, and here was a golden opportunity. He was about to reply when he saw it. The final line.

_Please hurry._

_- Tron_


	3. Night Ride

Edward Dillenger, Jr. stood over his workstation. Quiet and deliberate, he pored over a deluge of files in the ENCOM system. It had been hours since he had eaten or even visited the restroom, but there he sat. His eyes read text in flashes across the screen, his fingers flying about the desk-screen as they typed and selected and altered.

The plan was perfect. It had to be. It was how _he _wanted it.

Dillenger took of his glasses and roughly massaged the bridge of his nose. Perhaps now was a good time for a short break. No sooner had the notion entered his mind, a slight pain hit at the base of his skull. He was very much aware of what this meant, as it preceded every "incident." Suddenly, working still longer without a break seemed to be a very good idea.

Dillenger sat down and donned his glasses again. He resumed working, knowing that the final payoff would definitely be worth any suffering now.

Sam Flynn rocketed down the freeway. He rode atop his father's old bike, the Ducati. He had finally finished fixing it up about two years ago, it's performance now at a peak not even his father had been able to achieve. The wind lashed his beaten leather jacket, the body of it flapping against Sam.

He was most certainly speeding; he usually did on this bike, courtesy of his years of pranking ENCOM prior to his acension to CEO. Since that ascension, however, the police department now knew full well who it was they had ticketed and arrested. Since he was now one of the richest men in the world,("on the Grid," as Sam would put it), the police rarely bothered anymore to deter him from his habit. This made Sam actually insist that they try, for he hated being subjected to the same preferintial treatment afforded others in his tax bracket.

As he rode, his mind was flooded with questions. How was it that Tron was still alive? How had he been able to send an email? And, what was this threat he mentioned? With each question that entered Sam's mind, a dozen more followed it.

Sam finally arrived at ENCOM. He got off his bike and made his way inside. In the lobby, the night guard started to tell him to come back in the morning, rattling a canned, "Sorry, sir. Didn't know it was you," once he realized who had walked in. After a brief, but awkward conversation Sam moved past the guard's post.

Once Sam made it past the guard, he went to the left side of the lobby to use a guest phone. Consulting the directory, which was extensive, he found the number he was looking for and dialed. The line rang five times before going to its owner's voicemail.

"_This is Edward Dillenger. I'm sorry that I missed your call, but if you leave your name, number and a brief message, I will get back to you as soon as possible."_

Sam gave a light, frustrated groan. Dillenger was _always_ here this late. Whether it was to complete a project or do research, he was always here.

Sam couldn't let this bother him right now; he had to get to the Grid. He dashed back outside and straddled the bike and rode off into the night.

Rem stood on the balcony of his estate. Still relatively new, it had cost a fortune of 675,000 bits* and was the largest on the Grid. Not since the days of Abraxis had there been such a home even concieved, let alone built. Truly, it was an imposing, yet magnificent edifice.

The Grid-winds caused his cloak to flutter in the air. The cloak, like the attire underneath, was a glossy black that was veined with deep purple light. This was unique in itself, as Rem was the only program on the Grid with such coloring. It was whispered among his elite guard that his light would sometimes change colors when he was in the grip of strong emotion. It was also rumoured that he seemed like two different programs inhabiting the same body.

There he stood, looking out over the Grid, his hands behind his back. Never had it seemed so... Boring.

It would be happening soon. Rem was able to take comfort in this fact, for the prospect excited him probably more than any other program. This brought a small, very rare smile to the program's face.

Soon now.

Soon.


	4. Flynn's

Built in late 1981, _Flynn's_ was a video arcade that had been, realistically, marginally profitable for its owner, the late Kevin Flynn. Despite his profits being little more than the change that many of its patrons pumped into the games, he still managed to always have the latest and most popular games. _Asteroids, Pac-Man, Space Paranoids_- A veritable plethora of gaming heaven awaited. But the most popular of all, the one at which Flynn was the undisputed best, the crowning glory, was the game _Tron_. Many had poured quarters into this machine, blowing their allowances on what many parents, even then, considered a silly habit. But very few had come close to approaching, let alone surpassing, the summit that was Kevin Flynn's high score.

The following year, everything changed with Flynn's visit to the gaming grid.

The arcade, having closed in 1989 and now abandoned , stood at a corner in a less-developed part of the city. It now stood apart from its sister buildings, a brick edifice completely different from the glass and steel conformities that surrounded it. While the other buildings sported smooth, featureless faces, _Flynn's _still flaunted every brick and every pock mark that it had earned in it's 33 years.

Kevin Flynn, and now his son, Sam, had gone to great lengths to preserve it.

Standing before the arcade, all of these memories came surging back to Sam. He smiled as he wistfully read the neon sign. Walking up to the building's side, his fingers gently caressed the brick. He could almost hear his father speak to him in his reminiscing. He even began to remember the many times he had come here with his dad, father and son showing the other patrons how it was done.

But the trip down memory lane would have to wait. Right now, Sam Flynn had business to attend to.

Sam entered the arcade and turned on his flashlight. The circle of light illuminated a sea of cobwebs, reformed once again. He sauntered over to the breaker box and engaged the power. A surge of current, a quick sigh of ozone and the place was alight in it's air of 1980's glory. The game machines chirped and clicked in anticipation of the next play. Neon light painted the space in color. The jukebox roared to life, blaring Skid Row's _18 & Life_ as it awoke.

Across the room, he saw it. _Tron_, the doorway to the grid.

Sam pulled on the the machine and it moved away from the wall. The door waited patiently, certainly.

Sam Flynn touched the door and reminisced again. He remembered, in this moment, not his father but his first trip to the Grid. Once again, he smiled. This was going to be fun.

He opened the door and descended. He soon came to second door, the one that led to his father's private office. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and entered.

When he first came here four years ago, dust had served as the rooms flesh. Soon after his return, Sam Flynn renovated the space. His father's old television set had now been replaced with an HD set, with satillite. The shelves were still here, only now filled with books and PC games instead of the spare computer parts and other things that his father had put there. The desk was the same as before, smooth black glass with a monitor built in. In the intervening time, however, Sam had completly upgraded its graphics and memory capabilities. And directly across from the desk was the Grid's key- The laser. Moved from ENCOM shortly after his father's arrival as CEO, Sam and Quorra were the only ones who knew where it was.

Sam removed his jacket and hung it before he sat down at the workstation. Touching the screen, a message appeared.

**_Greetings, Flynn_**

Sam typed in his password and was soon on his desktop. At the bottom-left corner was an icon that read LASERCONTROL. He double clicked and the file took him to the main menu. His finger made a beeline toward a single selection: _Engage._

_Engage LaserControl?, _it asked. Below it flashed its options, _Yes No._

Sam hesitated for a moment. He suddenly remembered his father explaining to him how the portal shut down and how he became trapped in the Grid. "It closed on me," he had said. What if that happened to Sam? What if tonight proved to be the last time he ever saw his wife and child? Would this program Rem come after him, just as Clu had hunted his father?

Sam shook his head and dismissed this pessimissive doubting. With a confident and determined flourish, he pressed _Yes._

The room streaked and flashed around him. The bricks and metal became paper-thin lines of color as he watched his body do the same. A split second before his vision failed, the voyage was complete.

For the first time in years, Sam Flynn was once again on the Grid.

Rem sat a desk in his home office. He read various reports and updates pertaining to his Grid. He was a leader, a doer for the Grid, but he wasn't afraid to do such menial tasks as file and scan.

A knock on the door and one of his guards entered. "Hail Rem," he said with a bow.

"What is it?" asked Rem.

"Sir, Rectifiers in the residential district have detected a new arrival. They are requesting to pursue."

"Where was the program detected?"

"In an abandoned section," the guard replied. "In the maker's building." The guard waited silently as he watched his master's face twist into a devious smile. "What shall I tell them, sir?"

Rem chuckled lightly to himself. This was going to be good. "Tell them not to pursue but to keep a lock on his signal. I want to see what he does."

"Yes, sir." With that, the guard bowed again and left.

Rem couldn't help but be pleased with himself. "Why have you come, little program?"


	5. Rumasse

Sam opened his eyes and quickly looked around. As before, the clutter and the ragged, dusty skin of his father's office and the world of the users had gone. Now it had been replaced with the sleek, smooth of the Grid. He looked down and saw that his clothing had changed as well. His jacket now looked brand-new, shining lines of white light trimming the edge and striping each shoulder like chevrons. His pants remained unchanged, while his shoes had a single line, starting at the heel and circling, rising and ending at the toe.

Rising from his seat, Sam noticed a flat object on the right side of the desk, glowing softly orange. He quickly skimmed it and discovered it was a hard copy, of sorts, of the email that Tron had sent. But on this copy, there was a postscript:

_Step outside as soon as you read this._

Sam was becoming more unnerved, but did as the message instructed.

Stepping outside, it was very much the way it had been when Sam had first come to the Grid. The grungy streets, the thundering sky, the lighted surfaces. It had been four years, but there were few visible changes.

"I'm here, Tron," Sam said aloud. "Now what?"

No sooner did he say the words when a bright pinpoint of light appeared in the distance. Sam squinted his eyes to focus on the object, and it quickly came into view. It was a light-cycle, framed in cool green and heading right for him. Sam, feeling the adrenaline course through him, reached and drew out his disc. He could feel and hear the edge of it turning into the weapon.

The bike was almost on top of him now. He pulled back his arm, ready to strike. Suddenly, the cycle turned sideways and skidded to a stop just in front of Sam.

The rider looked Sam up and down, not a second glance to the disc in his hand. His helmet retracted completely, revealing cropped white hair and a lean face. There was a faint scar on his left cheek(Could programs even be scarred? Sam had wondered.) but this could be attributed to his reckless driving. His suit was lined with the same cool green light as his cycle. He got off the cycle, allowing it to retract into it's rod-like form.

"Are you Rumasse?" the program asked.

Sam shook his head in disbelief. "Say that again?"

"Are... You... Rumasse?" the program asked again.

Realizing he had heard right, Sam allowed himself a small grin. Rumasse, the name this program asked about, was actually an anagram for User Sam. "Yeah, that's me."

"Disc, please," he said, holding out his hand.

Sam handed the program his disc and watched with confusion. Upon recieving the disc, the program pulled out a strange device. It was small, with a narrow slot in one side. Sam watched as his his disc was inserted into the slot and began to spin. Tiny red lights appeared one by one as the disc rotated, eventually forming a circle during what turned out to be a scan of the disc. When the scan was complete, the lit circle blinked white.

"Identity confirmed," the program said, returning the disc. "Here's your message." He handed the message to it's recipient before once again breaking out his cycle and speeding away. Now, all was quiet.

Sam looked over what he had been given. It was exactly like the message he had read inside, only blue instead of orange. He expanded it just as he would have a window on his computer back at home.

_Avoid the rectifiers._

Sam didn't have to reread the message. He still remembered his first encounter with these monstrosities that had almost cost him his life in the Games. Remembering where he was supposed to go, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, black rod. Since his last visit to the Grid, he had realized that light-cycles were, truly, the fastest way to get around. Since that time, he had designed a compact version of the rods they were encased in, which he now held. Running into a jump, he pulled the rod apart and the cycle materialized underneath him. Upon solidifying, it made contact with the ground and he was on his way.

The messenger was being pulled along the corridor. The guards that held him seemed totally unaffected by his struggle. Nothing seemed to register for them- No whimpers or kicks or curses. They finally came to the end of the corridor, the door opening as they threw him to the floor. The messenger looked up and saw him.

Rem.

"This program has had contact with target," one of the guards said.

Rem got up from his desk and walked around to the messenger. He said, bending down, "What happened?"

The messenger stammered fearfully for having been thrown before his leader. "I only gave him a message, sir."

"And what did this message say?"

Stammering again, "I don't know, sir. I don't read the messages; I just deliver them."

"Hmmm," said Rem. He walked deliberately to the window behind his desk. He stared out of it for a moment, allowing time to draw cruelly out like a blade. "Do you remember the program's name?" he asked. "Your recipient?"

The duress made it a struggle for this messenger to remember. After a few moments of wrong names and incorrect guesses, he had it.

"Rumasse," he said excitedly. "The name was Rumasse."

"Thank you," Rem replied, turning about to face him. Then, to his guards, he nodded. Without warning, a guard's disc sliced the messenger's head in two, the data bits cascading to the floor. Once it was over, Rem bid his guards to go and sat behind his desk once more. He contemplated what the messenger had said, wondering just what exactly was going on.

"Is it him?" he asked aloud. One might have thought that he was talking to himself, except that someone answered.

"Yes."


	6. Byte From The Past

The elevator ascended at a moderate speed, smoothly floating up the shaft. Upon reaching the top, Sam stepped onto the floor of his late father's former Grid-home. Only about a quarter of the floor lights came to life, leaving most of the surrounding area still in shadow. Sam looked about in confusion. Why would "Tron" tell him to come here if it was in such a shoddy state?

As if on cue, a soft beeping was coming from Sam's pocket. He rummaged and found the hard copy that Tron had left for him, though he didn't remember ever pocketing it. He noticed as he looked at it that it no longer bore text on it's surface; it sported an arrow point. The arrow was currently pointing off slightly to Sam's left. He turned toward that direction and saw that the arrow changed with him.

It was trying to lead him somewhere.

Sam slowly walked in the direction the arrow indicated. He watched with each step, waiting for the arrow to point another direction or indicate he had arrived wherever it was leading him. But as he proceeded forward, it only pointed. After a few more steps, it flashed an "X" and blinked out.

Sam looked up for the first time and found himself in a corner. Now his confusion had reached an entirely new level. He still remembered the sometimes quirky sense of humor that his father had possessed. Even at home, he would sometimes give his son a computer game that, more than once, had led his avatar into a corner on the game map. But now it was a real corner.

_Now what?_ he thought. Frustrated, he banged a fist against the wall. A loud, keening whine briefly filled the air. Just as Sam was about to run for it, the corner of the wall became segmented and folded away, revealing a doorway. Noting that this was the second doorway that his father had apparently kept a secret, he began his descent.

Entering the door deposited him immediately on a stairway, each step illuminating in soft white light as he descended. Sam couldn't help but wonder what exactly might be waiting for him at the bottom. After a few minutes, the steps leveled out into an underground chamber.

Sam's jaw hit the floor.

All around him were slick-and-shine-surfaced equipments. Operatin terminals twice his height, small observation monitors, a row of cots, a bare, round patch of floor that looked like it might be for sparring- this must have been where his father had staged his initial fight against Clu. But those days were long gone.

As Sam moved his gaze over the area, something caught his eye on the far side of the room. What appeared to be a life-size mannequin of a program playing in the games stood there, disc in hand, face hidden behind the visor of his helmet. Sam took only a single step when it happened.

The mannequin moved. More specifically, it launched its disc at Sam. Without thinking, Sam grabbed his own disc and deflected the missile, sending it crashing into the wall.

"Who are you!" yelled Sam.

The program merely stood and lightly clapped. Once he ceased his clapping, "Well done, Sam Flynn," he said.

"How do you know my name?" Sam asked.

"I once fought alongside of your father. For many cycles, I have waited for the right opportunity to bring you here and now, that opportunity has arisen.

"I want you to help me."

Sam reared back his disc, ready to de-rez this program. "This is your last chance," he said. "After that, it's deresolution. Who are you?"

For his answer, the program merely collapsed his helmet, revealing his face. His was a strong face, angular, determined, but somehow friendly. Light brown hair topped his head, cut short. Though approximately thirty years younger, he looked just like his creator, Alan-One.

"Tron." Never had more disbelief been heard in a person's or program's voice.

"Very good, Sam Flynn," congratulated Tron. "Now to business."


	7. The Hunt

The streets of the Grid were silent and still. Black Guard were patrolling on foot, the glow of their own light tinting their vision a dull orange. They watched as programs crossed the data-streets at the very sight of them, from which they derived a small pleasure. But they couldn't allow themselves to be distracted; Rem had insisted as much. Besides, they were on assignment.

"Think he'll show?" was one's query to his partner.

"The target or the other program?" asked the other. "The target, most likely. The Leader said that this was where he could be found."

"Affirmative," replied the first. "But what of the other, do you think?"

"You talk as if he's still alive. He was de-rezzed. Every program on the Grid knows that."

"I'm uncertain about that," said the doubter. "He's known for—"

The two Guard were nearly bowled over by the pull from two radiant streaks of light blazing past them; one cool blue, the other brilliant white. They managed to catch one final glimpse before they disappeared from the street.

The helmet of the questioner beeped and clicked and flashed as scan data on the two cyclists came into his visor. What he read was something that every Guard could hope for, but at present never dare to hope.

"By the creator," he said, awestruck. "It's them."

"What? Both of them?" asked the other. His partner only nodded. Touching the side of his helmet, he opened a comm channel. "Target sighted with accomplice. Coordinates and projected trajectory transmitting. Calling Rectifier pursuit."

The hunt was on.

What are we doing? This was the question that been circling in Sam's mind for the last nanocycle (approximately 45 minutes.) and he still had no answer; just Tron, who was, apparently, very much alive, telling him that they had to move but not tell where. The only positive aspect of his current situation was that he was on a light-cycle for the first time in four years.

How many cycles would that be? Sam quickly did the math in his head and came to the conclusion that it had been almost twelve cycles to programs since he had last been here. As Sam finished his calculation, he realized that it felt that the number of years was closer to the number of cycles.

Sam was tired of the silence and finally asked, "Where are we going?" He heard the buzz of his helmet comm initiate and transmit the connection.

"I'm taking you to someplace important," Tron said. "You're very important, Sam Flynn. Even to your enemies."

"Enemies?" asked a very confused Sam. "I don't have any enemies, not even in my world."

"You don't know how wrong you are, Sam."

Spotlights blazed down upon the riders. Both looked up and saw the last thing that they wanted to see: twin Rectifiers flew above them, each with their lights bearing down on each of them. From one of the Rectifiers, a voice spoke.

"Programs, disengage your light-cycles and await further instructions."

Sam and Tron said nothing, only nodding to one another. They gunned their engines and increased their speed, beginning their escape.

"Programs, I repeat, disengage your light-cycles and await further instructions. If you do not comply, we will use deadly force."

The pilots both watched as the cycles didn't slow, forcing their hand. With frustrated reluctance, the Rectifiers activated guns and opened fire. Blasts of light shot from the crafts at the cycles, bursting on the street.

Sam was starting to panic. "What the hell are they shooting at us for?" he yelled.

"We didn't comply with their instructions," came the obvious answer from Tron. He was a program, after all.

"No!," Sam yelled. "I didn't know Rectifiers had weapons."

"For belligerent or escaping programs," Tron explained. "We have to get out of here."

"Brilliant idea, Tron!" Even as he said it, Sam realized that the sarcasm was more than likely lost on the program. "How are we supposed to do that?"

"Don't worry; our exit is coming up," said Tron, pointing straight ahead.

Sam saw the tunnel that Tron had indicated. No, not a tunnel; it was a docking bay of some kind. Which meant that the street would be ending very soon. They had entered the bay now, the wall looming just ahead. Sam's nerves threatened to make him wreck his cycle, his knuckles white as his cycle. Just as the wall was due to hit, Tron punched some buttons on his cycle's console, causing two squares to form in the wall, just large enough for a light-cycle and rider. The cycles and the wall connected. Instead of crashing, however, the wall gave way, the square sections turning to allow the cycles passage. Further inspection by the Rectifier crews would turn up no signs of the fugitives.

Sam and Tron slowed to a stop and put away their cycles. Tron said nothing as he walked down the dark corridor. Sam couldn't see a way out; he had no choice but to follow Tron.

It was a long time before anything was said. Sam could hear dull voices but couldn't figure out from where they were coming. He tried to see if some clue lay ahead but not even the light from their clothing penetrated more than five feet into the dark.

With nothing better to do, Sam began to whistle. The tune _Mr. Roboto_ sang forth, lending a shrill and haunting echo to the already intimidating darkness. He quickly stopped, however, when Tron told him to be quiet. It was good that the tunnel was dark enough to keep Tron from noticing the glare Sam gave him.

Finally, they stopped. "We're here," Tron said.

"Where's here?" asked Sam.

A small square hatch opened in the wall that Sam just realized was there. Within a person- no, a program- could be seen; rather their head could be seen. It was an almost normal silhouette appearance save for the trace of soft green light framing the jaw. "Password?" asked the program. His voice was a menacing growl.

Tron nodded and said, "Long live the Users."

The wall shook violently and suddenly slid open. The program that had greeted them was shown to be wearing a cloak quite similar to what Sam had seen Clu wear upon their first meeting. Sam also noticed that along with the green which framed the jaw, this program, named Fray, also had a thin scar over his left eye, also green.

"Better get down there," Fray said to Tron. "The meeting's already started."

Tron nodded and walked off. Sam started to follow but was stopped by Fray. "Not you," he said.

"Fray," said Tron. "It's him."

Fray now looked upon Sam with a new-found awe. "Forgive me, Son of Flynn," he groveled. "Go on with him."

Tron resumed walking once Sam had caught up. "I told you that you were important," he said.

"I remember," was Sam's reply. "But why was he acting like that?" They stopped at another massive door as he finished speaking.

Tron said nothing.

The door opened with a loud groan.

There was only darkness. Darkness and a voice. "Ah! At last our saviors have returned!"


	8. Council Meeting

Tron and Sam entered the dark, the door closing behind them. No sooner did the door catch, light penetrated the room, dim at first before working in lines about the wall and floors. Serpentine illumination coiled upward from the floor's surface to reveal a table. Seated were three programs, two male and one female, each one flanked by two bodyguards, and whom Sam had never seen before.

The first program, seated at the left side, was a mountain of digital flesh. Muscles bulged at every visible point, which, consequentially, left him with virtually no neck to speak of. His clothing was almost identical to that of the Guard, with the obvious exception of the helmet, which allowed all to see his total baldness. Sam noticed that he had a nervous tic, a small twitch of the left of his upper lip. Every visible surface of his skin was traced with a faint webbing of scars, some glowing his orange light, and others plain as a User's flesh. Resting in front of him was a baton, its own light a dull gleam from extensive battle. As this weapon rested upon the table in front of its master, so, too, did the program's hand upon the weapon itself; it was clearly the only thing on this Grid that he truly trusted.

Seated at the opposite end of the table was the second male. He was slender, dark-skinned, hair a tight crew cut. Almost as a contrast to the other male, this one's dress was considerably more casual, slack-like pants and a loose jacket. The sleeves were lit at the "seams" by pale blue light, the same forming a tri-linear formation on his lapel, almost like a rank insignia. The same style of dress, as well as the insignia, were worn by his bodyguards. As with the first, his hands were preoccupied. Instead of a baton, however, he was twirling his disk around the middle finger of his right hand before giving it a quick toss in the air and catching it with his left. While one hand twirled, the other drummed apprehensive fingers on the tabletop. Though certain they had never before met, Sam felt that there was something familiar about this program.

The female program was different from the previous two in virtually every way. While the others each occupied their hands with objects or nervous drumming, she sat erect, hands folded, as though she were conducting a meeting. The two men wore only basic clothing; she was garbed in a slim dress, fitting yet flowing from her hips to her dainty ankles, and white. Her hands and ears were decorated with the clearest crystalline jewelry, highlighting her stark white hair. Her light was bright, even whiter than her hair, as if in a game of brinkmanship amidst her anatomy. Her eyes were almost solid white, themselves, save for their smoky irises. Unlike the other two, her light, rather than being blandly bright and still, gave off light pulsating, ever fading in and out. Sam was almost certain that he had met this program before, but her identity remained annoyingly elusive to him.

"Who are you people?" Sam asked.

"All in good time, Sam Flynn." The disembodied voice had returned. It had filled the room before, but now seem to fade from one side of the room and back into another. "How long has it been now? About 200 cycles?"

"Maybe," he said. "I don't keep time like you Basics do."

"Indeed. And now, you have returned. I must say, I didn't expect you to come back. The great Sam Flynn, son of our maker. The heir to the throne, as it were. It's a shame that it isn't you -"

"Shut up." Sam fumed over the voice's words "You don't know what you're talking about. My dad never ruled over the Grid. And I damn sure wasn't some 'heir to the throne.' Hell, I didn't even believe the Grid really existed until I first came here. But maybe, just maybe, before we go any further, you could have the balls to tell me who you are. It gets kind of boring after a while, talking to some voice."

This time, it was the woman speaking to Sam. Her voice was slightly breathy, traced with the same digital sounding as all Grid residents. "That's very rude, you know. Speaking to your host in such a manner. With all the talk I've heard about Users from the Arjians, one would think that you'd learned that much, at least."

"Lady," Sam said, "so far, my night has consisted of receiving a message from Tron, who's supposed to be dead, by the way, coming back to the Grid for the first time in years, being chased by Recognizers and Rectifiers or whatever you call them, a high-speed chase on lilght-cycles which nearly ended in driving straight into a wall, and finally being led to some secret boardroom beneath the city. And now, I'm having to justify myself to programs I've never met for being 'rude' to some guy who hasn't even got the guts to show his damn face. So, yes, it might be a little rude but then, I'm a little testy after the way my night has gone so far. So forgive me if I've offended anyone. In fact, ya know what? Please let me know if I've offended anyone here, I'll be sure to get anyone I missed next time."

The woman began to stand, the solid white glow of her eyes betraying her anger at being addressed in such a manner. "You have the arrogance and the temper that all Users share," she seethed. "And you are our last hope? Ha! We'll be lucky to survive the first battle, let alone microcycles from now."

"Now, now, my dear," the voice soothed. "He may be rude, but he is also correct. He has been through quite a bit already, and we are asking so much more of him. If nothing else, I do believe that he deserves to see my face." No sooner had the voice fell silent, a brilliant shaft of light shot straight downward, stark white as the figure within it. It was a tall male program, hair virtually white. His dress consisted of a long coat and pants, smoky gray with faint, lighter trim about the cuffs and lapels, coordinated gloves and boots covering his hands and feet, respectively. He stood with one arm hanging at his side, the other hidden behind him. He remained still for some time, a whole nanocycle, (about three minutes.) it seemed, before finally revealing what hid behind his back. At first, Sam thought it some kind of weapon, a somewhat long, translucent rod weapon. Before Sam could speak, however, the program raised it like a spear and slammed it's tip into the floor. The rod blazed to life, filling itself on impact with a pure white light. Upon illumination, the object was revealed to be not a weapon, but a walking cane. And when the program raised to his shoulder, his face rose with it, a broad grin plastered across.

"Recognize me now, Sam Flynn?" he asked, still grinning.

Sam couldn't believe it. Here the program stood, in the digi-flesh, and he still couldn't believe it. "Zuse," he simply said.

"Aha!" the still-living program shouted. "At last! It would seem that he has finally seen the light."

Tron had watched all the while, saying nothing. While had known what to expect, he nevertheless had grown bored with the theatrics. Leave it to Zuse to put on a show, even for a request such as this. His boredom had been showing, and Zuse was not unaware of this.

"Oh, my dear Tron," he said, descending the steps which had formed and disappeared upon disembarking. "Even for a Monitor, you have no appreciation for things such as this. You really must lighten up, Program."

"We have business to discuss, Zuse," Tron said tightly. "Perhaps you could move this along. It won't be long before we're discovered."

"Ever the killjoy," Zuse retorted.

The brutish program now spoke. "Enough with this foolishness, Zuse. You've had your fun, but Tron is right. The time for games is past; we either need to do what we came here to do, or send him home."

"I don't know, Grom," said the younger male to the other. "I'm all for getting to the point and all that, but I'm starting to enjoy this. We should do this more often."

"You fail to appreciate the seriousness of our position, Brakit, and, consequently, fail as a leader," the one called Grom responded. "That is why you will almost definitely de-rezz in the coming battle."

Without warning, Brakit flew from his chair into a crouched stance, his disk in his hand and glowing, ready to go. Grom had moved from his own chair as well, and now held his baton at the ready. Before either could act further, arcs of electricity coursed over and through their bodies. They both grimaced and groaned in pain, falling to their knees and clutching their chests. Beyond them, the woman stood with arms extended, eyes aglow. The smaller electrical arcs emitting from her partly-clenched hands clearly showed that she was the one responsible for their pain.

"You are still so eager to fight each other, that you can't focus on the true enemy." Her voice now carried a spectral echo, sending chills down Sam's spine. As she maintained the hold on the programs their entire bodies began to glow in a queer mingling of their own light with their holder's.

"That's enough, Jem," Tron said calmly. Despite the noise made by her spectacle, he was clearly heard by all. His disk was in his hand, not battle-ready but still poised for release. "I don't want to have to intervene, but you're forcing my hand. Let them go."

Jem opened her hands, ceasing the arcing and releasing the programs. Her eyes soon returned to their previous state as she sat back down. "I'm only keeping the peace, Tron. You know, _your job_."

"No, Jem," Tron replied. "You were hurting others to get what you wanted. You know, _Rem's job_." He watched as Jem clenched her jaw in seething anger at the comparison which brought an almost imperceptible smile to his face.

From the silence that had filled the room, Sam had finally made the connection. "Jem?" he said. "I remember you now. You're the one that told me to survive. I even named my daughter after you. But I don't remember you being able to something like that."

She gave him a cold look. "A lot's changed since you've been gone, Sam Flynn. And now, things are worse than when you were last here. Against advice, Zuse and Tron insisted that we need you, and so brought you here."

"Now, Jem, we don't want to spoil the surprise, do we?" Zuse jestingly asked. "Now that the fight has been broken up, I'd say that it's time to get down to business." All but Zuse sat at the table, their meeting officially beginning. None noticed the miniscule blinking dot that hung stories above them. It made no sound or movement; it simply watched, and waited.

They didn't have long.

* * *

><p>Rem sat in his home office, at his desk, smiling. He looked at the screen before him, secure Cam footage streaming live in front of him, and he could only smile. It was beyond imagining that he could be lucky enough not only to have found both Tron and Sam Flynn, but to see them traveling together, to boot. Oh, this had been a good night, indeed. As if that hadn't been enough, luck had shown that it was clearly not through with him yet tonight. SysCams throughout the city had kept an eye on the fugitives for him; he privately confessed that he was impressed with the secret wall panel during the light-cycle chase. and while he couldn't see them now, he was fully aware of their location. And once more, fortune provided for him. This time, it had brought traitors to his attention.<p>

Oh, how sweet their punishment would be. He couldn't just de-rezz them; that would be too quick, merciful even. No, he knew that he would have to make them suffer before the end. But how? What could one possibly do to the condemned when their sentence is, ultimately, death?

But there were their factions. Yes, that was it! Make them suffer for their faction's treachery, suffer more for being sent to the capital for the purpose of revolt, and more still by finally giving the release of death. Yes, and he already knew what would happen after. Waste not, after all. Yes, it was already falling into place before they had even been caught.

The six markers blinked steadily on the screen. He continued to smile as he pressed a button on his desk. Very soon, three of his honor guard as well as their commander entered his office. They all gave a salute, saying nothing even as the salute was returned and they lowered their arms.

"We have the location of the fugitives," Rem told his men. "I want you to take a detachment to the designated coordinates. No Recognizers, only light-cycles. They will most likely have company, so be on your guard. They are to be considered armed and dangerous. Use whatever measures are deemed necessary."

"Prisoners, sir?" asked the commander.

Rem thought for a moment. The idea of taking prisoners in this skirmish had been a good source of his current contentment. Even so, he still didn't know just how many they would be dealing with. If he sent to many, they would be compromised. To few, and it would be a massacre. It was decided, then.

"Take others if you can, but the fugitives are top priority. I want them brought in alive. Any others are dispensable."

"One last thing, sir," the commander said. "How big a detachment?"

"I will leave that to your discretion, commander," Rem answered. "But be careful. I don't want our people compromised or led to a slaughter."

"Understood, sir." The guards saluted again before turning on the heel and departing.


End file.
